Butterfly's Wings
by Owl344
Summary: Miles makes one last wish to be whole, uncrippled...but when he wakes up in another dimension, fifteen years in the past, he realizes that the trembling's of a butterfly's wings can, indeed, cause hurricanes.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: It's official—I'm an idiot. That's the **_**only**_** explanation I can come up with as to **_**why**_**, exactly, I decided to start writing a new story when I've barely started **_**March to the Empire**_**. Mind, it's not exactly a decision…sigh. Is it my fault my logic and my imagination aren't connected? **_**Is**_** it?**_

_**To anyone who's reading this—**_**March to the Empire **_**is still going to be my main fic. This one will be updated sporatically (probably)—sometimes, with a bunch of chapters, and probably often going weeks with none. That said, I'm about to write Chapter Two, because this story ambushed me and isn't going to let me go for a while yet.**_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. Wish I did. That's life.**_

Chapter One

Miles woke and immediately knew something was wrong. Something was missing…no, that wasn't right, damnit. Something was _added_. Something that was different from anything he'd ever felt.

He opened his eyes—

—and knew that something was wrong_er_.

The Vorkosigan House, where he was now staying with his wife and their two children, had wooden ceilings. This place did not. Furthermore, he observed, there was a smell in the air, a smell that, even now, brought back a sharp, nostalgic pain.

No way. He was on a _ship_…

This shouldn't be possible. However, it clearly was. The most logical theory was that he' been kidnapped. _But not bound,_ he noted. _And no guard. Kidnappers good enough to get me away from Vorkosigan House without waking me—all sorts of implications, there. For instance, did they drug me? If so, how? Do I have traitors in my staff? But no, I know Ma Kosti. She wouldn't do anything like _that_. And neither would her son, if I'm any judge of character at all. And I _know _I am. In any case—kidnappers good enough to drug and kidnap be, but not competent bind and guard me? That makes no sense. I'm missing something, here._

He stood up from his bed, and took a tentative step. _Well, whatever drugs they used, it's not affecting me now._ He was capable of walking quite easily. In fact, it seemed somehow that walking was easier _now_ than it had been before he'd been abducted. _Benevolent_ _kidnappers? But no, that doesn't make sense. Then again, neither does anything else right now._

He took a few more steps, gaining confidence as he walked. The door was apparently unguarded, and, what's more, he wasn't hearing anything—well, aside from the usual ship's whine—from the room outside. He was about to try the door—probably locked, but you never knew—when something stopped him dead in his tracks. He'd just caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There was just one problem…

It wasn't him.

Oh, it _resembled_ him, in a kind of this-is-what-your-relative-might-look-like way, but it definitely wasn't him. In fact, now that he thought about it, it looked more like Ivan than anyone else.

Except that it was responding to his commands, both conscious and subconscious. He could walk, and move his hand, and when he'd felt seen…himself, he supposed, his mouth had nearly gaped open. The only explanation he could think of was cloning—this could have been his body, if he hadn't been damaged by the teratogen gas—but no one he knew would ever allow it. Hell, _he'd_ never allow it—it had been in his will, just in case anyone thought that it was a good idea. And besides, he was—well, had been—at home in bed with his wife. There wasn't going to be any action _there_.

Then again, it would explain why he looked so much younger, and why he couldn't remember anything after being at home. Memory loss (suppression) was common, after coming back to life—as he knew, all too well.

Just not why it had been _done_. Ekaterin wouldn't allow it, nor would Father, Mother, Mark, Illyan, Gregor, Allegre, or any one of half a dozen other people. And when Lord Mark Vorkosigan—not to mention Lady Vorkosigan, the Former Chief of ImpSec, the _current_ Chief of Impsec, the Count and Countess Vorkosigan and the Emperor—spoke, people listened. Or else soon found themselves regretting the fact that they hadn't.

So. The only logical explanation was that his brain had been transferred…but logic stated almost as firmly that he _couldn't_ have been.

That was it. He wasn't leaving this room until he'd searched it, top to bottom, for clues to what the hell was going on…_Well,_ he amended, looking down at his nightclothes, _and gotten changed into something more…formal._

He decided that getting changed immediately was a good plan, just in case any unanticipated events arose that forced him to evacuate. He went to the closet beside his bed, and was startled to see, on the doors, a very precious knife with a jewel-studded hilt. His Grandfather's knife…and one he'd stopped carrying around with him long ago. Not to mention that if he wasn't kidnapped, then anyone arming him would surely have given him a plasma blaster, or at least a stunner. And if he _was_, it made no sense to arm him, even with something as primitive as a knife. Least of all a _Vorkosigan_ knife, which were almost all good quality—and _especially_ not _this_ Vorkosigan knife, made out of very strong and very sharp steel. _Still, I suppose it could be some vengeance thing…ha ha, you Vorkosigans can't escape from a simple _ship_, even armed, unbound and unguarded. Actually, that would explain a lot, even the new body—maybe my kidnapper got carried away, or maybe it was part of the plan all along. But if that _was_ the plan, then this body must have been created close to _fifteen_ years ago—before I created the Dendarii, _long _before I had any enemies except those who wished to get to my father. And if they can get to me, they can certainly get to him. Then again, it's possible that they got both of us—a whole revenge scenario. But if that's true, then that means—_no! _Not Mother, not Ekaterin—not his wonderful Aral and Helen…_

_Calm down, Miles,_ he instructed himself. _Panicking isn't going to get you anywhere. If they _are_ kidnapped, and you don't know that for sure, then the first step will be getting them, and you, out of there. _Then _we can find the bastard who did this and make him rue the day he ever thought this twisted scheme up. And if they _haven't_ been kidnapped, then there's nothi—well, a lot less to worry about._

He took a deep breath, trying to excerpt some control over his emotions, and opened the cupboard.

Then, all attempts at control gone, he stared at the contents of the closet as if they were his Grandfather dressed as a pink flamingo.

Even if his kidnapper _was_ out to prove his superiority to the Vorkosigan's, he couldn't think of a _single _reason to make him wear—well, offer him the option of wearing—Imperial Cadet uniforms.

Well, all right, he could actually think of _several_, but none that made sense.

If his kidnapper—or whoever—had wanted to thrust his non-military status in his face, it would have been much better to give him an Admiral's uniform, a rank that he'd never earned on Barrayar. It would be falsely honouring him, rubbing his face in the fact that he was now a _civilian_. If they'd wanted to honour him truly, it would have made sense to do the same—because whoever this was, they were too skilled not to know just who "Admiral Naismith" really was. To give him a Cadet uniform—why? It neither credited nor insulted him. It was weird, but nothing more than that.

_Though_ _that could be a reason in and of itself. Confusion to the enemy…_

He shook his head and put the clothes on. They didn't, after all, embarrass him in any way, and he certainly wasn't going to wander around in his nightclothes. They fit him perfectly, which was also odd. He had, over the years and with long experience, come to be able to tell the difference between store-bought clothes and ones made specifically to fit him. These clothes were one of the latter—something else that made no sense. They'd have to have a tailor involved in their conspiracy (for he had no doubt that his absence was all over the news back home), and that wasn't very logical. Why involve someone you didn't have to? Unless, of course, the man was already a member and his being a tailor was just a coincidence…

He sighed. He was tired of all this theorizing, trying to fit together facts that didn't quite make sense. _Occam's Razor…the simplest explanation is usually the truest. But what to do when there is no simple explanation? _

He marched over to the comconsole and woke the screen. _First things first…find out how long I've been here. It's got to be at least a couple of days, more likely a week, if they did the clone transplant. Of course, it's not very likely that they'll let me access a calendar…but I won't know until I try, and who would I be if I didn't try? Certainly not a Vorkosigan._

To his surprise, he was able to gain access to the date. And to his shock, the date was completely off his estimation. He wasn't in the same year. Hell, he wasn't in some future year.

Apparently, he'd woken up with a whole body, twelve or thirteen years in the past…

He shook his head. _Concentrate, Miles,_ he told himself. _They're fooling with you. Time travel is impossible. _

So. He wasn't in the past, but someone was going to a hell of a lot of trouble to make him think that he was. And that meant…

He checked something on the comconsole and, sure enough, he wasn't on a ship but on a station, orbiting Barrayar. Apparently, he'd just started on the station. Soon, they'd be handing out green and yellow armbands. It brought back such memories…

_Oh, to be young and arrogant and sure of my immortality._

Of course, Ivan (among others) would say that he was still arrogant, if not sure of his own immortality. And he was sure that his father would snort if he ever heard Miles call himself old—which, he had to admit, was fair, since he was thirty-three and his father was almost twice his age.

He sighed, but stood up. If they—whoever they were—were going to such efforts, it would be rude to disappoint them. Besides, following along meant he ahd the best chance of escaping.

Not for the first time, he blessed his family memory. It meant that he still knew how to get to mess. By his calculations, he should arrive right on time for breakfast…

Butterfly's Wings

As it turned out, his calculations were a little off; he hadn't taken into account his…body. His _whole_ body. His body without a limp, that was able to walk faster than he'd ever been able to without space armour…

If it weren't for the knowledge that some innocent clone had died to provide him with this luxury, he'd be downright enjoying this.

Of course, it could be a hallucinogenic. He rather preferred that option; it meant that 1) no one had died to gift him (or torture him) with this privilege, and 2) he might not be on a space station at all, but rather closer to home.

There was just one problem; he'd had hallucinations before, more than once, and this didn't feel like one. The fact that he was considering that it was a hallucination rather sided against it being one; in the past, he'd simply accepted what he'd seen as truth.

In any case, he'd arrived earlier than he'd expected, and the mess was almost empty. He was pleased with this; it meant he got to choose his seat. He scanned the room, searching carefully—he wanted a place that would place his back to a wall, but also one that gave him a good view of the exits. And he wanted to be close to the exits, in case he had to make a quick escape…

_Ah. There._ He spotted the spot, and went to get his breakfast before seating himself at the seat he had selected. He ate, watching as, slowly, the people trickled in. There were several of them; hundreds of men, ready to dedicate their life to the Imperium…_Well. They would be, if this were real_.

_No. Wait._ How could—whoever it was—have gotten all this? Have hired hundreds of these people? How would it have _worked?_ _Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead._ _But not hundreds. Someone would have talked, someone would have refused…and even if they hadn't, ImpSec would have noticed someone hiring all these. And…there is just no way that they would have been able to find twins separated by fifteen years—people _identical_ to my peers when I was at the Academy._

_Shit._

_I actually _am_ in the past._

_Now how do I get back?_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: All my nefarious plots have failed--I still don't own Miles Vorkosigan, or any of his colleagues.**_

Chapter Two

Miles sat still, brain ticking away at its usual quick pace. _All right, let's think. I'm in the past—and in a whole body. An alternate dimension, possibly? Though that doesn't explain how I got here…_Focus_, Miles. Pretend that you're an ImpSec agent who's just been inserted into an area with minimal intelligence. What do I know for sure? I know that I'm me. I know where and when I am. I know who my family is, probably, though there may be some people living or dead here who aren't back home. I don't, in fact, know a lot. Hell, I don't even know who's emperor…though, with the current state of affairs, it would be reasonable to assume that it's Gregor. After all, I'm alive and well and living in the Imperial Military Academy, which wouldn't seem likely if there was a pretender on the throne. So what do I do? Make contact with your inside agent. And if I don't have one? Create one. I really hope that the living members of my family have stayed, because I know just who would be really helpful right now…_

Inwardly, he grimaced. He hadn't ever thought that there would be a time when That-Idiot-Ivan would prove useful for intelligence, for God's sake! Still, you worked with what you were given, and Ivan was the only one he could trust. Well, probably. At any rate, it was likelier that he'd trust Ivan than anyone else.

He ate quickly, scarfing down his breakfast and eyeing the door with ever-increasing impatience, searching for signs of Ivan. _Hurry up, damnit,_ he thought wildly, _I know you sleep late but this is _important_!_

It seemed an infinity until Ivan, still sleepy, dragged himself into the cafeteria. Miles was at his side in a flash, still surprised at how quickly he was moving in this body.

"Ivan," he growled. "I need to talk to you."

Ivan's look of sleepy good-naturedness disappeared, and another look took its place. It took Miles a moment to place that particular look, but when he did he nearly groaned: it was one that he'd worn, quite often, when defending Mark to his friends and family. It appeared that here—whatever here was—Ivan was, god help him, _protective_ of Miles.

"Are you all right, Coz?" queried Ivan worriedly.

Miles sighed in irritation. "I'm _fine_, Ivan. Or I will be, once you get your ass over to my table and I can talk to you!"

Ivan took his arm, frowning. "Piotr, is there something the matter?"

Miles snorted. _You bet there's something the matter,_ he thought wildly, _you try waking up fifteen years younger, in a different body, without kids and a wife! _And then, _Piotr? I suppose with an undamaged body, Grandfather had no reason to deny me his name._

He gritted his teeth. "Ivan. Get breakfast and _come over here_."

Maybe it was something in his tone, but—thank God—Ivan listened to him. Miles nearly pranced with impatience as Ivan selected his breakfast, and, once he was done, dragged him over to the seat he was occupying.

Ivan, to Miles' surprise, didn't eat first but began by asking questions.

"All right, Piotr, what's going on? You don't sound like yourself. Hell, you don't _walk_ like yourself."

"That would be," said Miles tightly, "because I'm not the Piotr you know."

Upon seeing Ivan's expression, he reached out and grabbed his elbow in a strong grip. "No, don't; I'm no spy. I'm loyal to Barrayar."

Ivan's face was still wary. "You can consider yourself loyal to Barrayar without being loyal to its Emperor. Or his Prime Minister."

Miles sighed, but kept his grip firm. "Look. I am, I assure you, the son of Cordelia Naismith and Aral Vorkosigan."

Ivan's face now lost its wary look and became confused. "Huh? Coz, you're not making sense."

Miles let Ivan's elbow go and grinned at the return of an Ivan who was familiar to him. "My name," he said, "is Miles Naismith Vorkosigan."

"Wha—" began Ivan.

"Because," continued Miles relentlessly, "when I was crippled at—before—birth by soltoxin gas, Grandfather refused to give me his name. I'm thirty-three years old. I'm a retired Admiral, of a sort. I've been charged for treason. I'm an Imperial Auditor. Oh, and I'm married, with kids…"

Butterfly's Wings

Ivan stared at him in shock as he finished his tale. "You know, coz," he said, "I shouldn't believe you. That's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. But…"

"But?" prompted Miles.

Ivan shook his head. "But I do. No offence meant, but why did you tell me?"

Miles smiled dryly. Now, if ever, was a time to use his favourite opening line on Ivan…but, alas, he could not afford to alienate this version of his cousin by calling him an idiot. "Judging from your reaction to me and my story, I'm not exactly the same here as I was there," he explained. "I need someone to coach me, tell me how I'm supposed to act."

"Huh." Ivan paused thoughtfully. "Well, all right. First thing—from what you said, you were somewhat military-mad, right?"

"Naturally. What else would I be, growing up as I did?"

"Ah," said Ivan. "Um." Silence fell.

Miles broke it. "Ivan," he said, "what are you not telling me?"

"_Well,_" said Ivan. "Um. Well. You might have grown up thinking of the military as a waste of time. You might only be here because you have no choice. Your ambition might have been to become an…well, an actor."

Miles blinked. Then he said flatly, "You're joking."

"Um. No."

"An _actor_?"

"Well. Yes. Look, there are worse things…"

"_An actor?_"

"_Yes_."

"Dear God, was I insane or just an idiot?"

"Hey," said Ivan, frowning. "I agree that it's not the…best of jobs, but it was what he wanted, and I happened to be _his_ cousin. He's no idiot, and no coward either."

_His_, not _yours_, right. "You're right," said Miles shortly. "I apologize. It's just…an _actor_?"

Ivan tried not to grin, and failed. "You have no idea how good it feels to see you agreeing with me about this, for once."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it."

Ivan snorted. "I guess not." He looked briefly uncomfortable, but then began, "You've got to understand, Miles, Piotr wasn't a weak man, or a dishonourable one, but he…didn't want to be in the military. I'm not even sure if he wanted to be an actor or if he chose that one because it was one of the most shocking he could think of."

"I can think of more," commented Miles.

"I said _one of_. There were depths he wasn't going to descend to."

"Quite," Miles remarked dryly. H shook his head, and brought his mind back to the focus of the conversation. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Ivan considered this for a moment. "Probably, but nothing I can remember right now. Well…"

"Yes?" queried Miles.

"I, ah, think you'll be surprised by the guest lecturer you've got for Strategy today."

"Why?" asked Miles, instantly curious.

"Oh, you'll see."

"Ivan, you _idi_—"

Just then, there was a large buzzing sound. Miles cursed his cousin, his luck, and his timing. _I wonder who—well, I'll find out eventually. In the meantime, I'd better get to class. _

He grabbed Ivan's shoulder before he could run off and hissed, "Ivan, what classes do I have."

Ivan paused to consider this, then said, "Let's see…today you have Piloting, Physical Activity, Psychology and Strategy & Tactics." He grinned. "I wish I could see your face when you see the guest lecturer, though."

"Ivan, just who—"

"Gotta go, Coz!" chirped Ivan, slipping out of his grip, "See you at lunch!"

Miles cursed, and began to run to Piloting.

_Butterfly's Wings_

He arrived at Piloting out of breath, panting and five minutes early. He knew that, eventually, he'd need to adjust his mental time-keeping, but for now, he thought it was better to be safe than sorry. _After all_, thought Miles sardonically, _it's bad enough that people think I want to be an _actor_. I'd die of shame if I were late._

He'd expected the class to be interesting; from what he remembered, the Piloting instructor was an amazing teacher who went out of his way to make things more interesting for his students. Unfortunately, he was wrong—though he was certain that this was interesting to his classmates, he knew this. The more advanced classes would probably make for an interesting review, but this class made him wish he was creating committees again.

Through great effort, he managed not to fall asleep. _I should get an award_, he thought dryly. _Maybe an Order of Merit, or possibly an Imperial Auditor's Seal. Or something _else _that's rightfully mine…_

It wasn't so easy to stay focused. In fact, it might be said that it was incredibly difficult. In normal circumstances, Miles might have been up to it, but these circumstances were by no definition "normal". His wife wasn't his wife; his kids weren't born yet, not even Nikki; he was out of a job—and his main ambition in life was to be…

He shuddered just thinking about it.

"Cadet Vorkosigan?"

Miles jerked to awareness. "Yes, sir?"

"Could you _please_ answer the question?"

Miles felt his face flushing. _God damn it, Vorkosigan,_ he berated himself, _stay aware! What would all your tutors say if they knew you could lose your focus by reviewing? For that matter, what would your _enemies _say?_

He gulped. "Ah…could you repeat the question, sir?"

The instructor sighed. _God, what's his name? It's been so long…_

"Yes, Cadet, I could. If you were piloting myself from, say, this station to Barrayar, which ship would you choose: an RZ47 or a QH39?

Miles jerked, pride stung. There was no need to insult him with such an obvious question as _that_—even as a Cadet, he'd known that much.

"An RZ47, sir," he replied indignantly.

His teacher—_Vordanos, right_—raised an eyebrow. "But in our book, I believe you'll note that the QH39 is the quicker ship."

Miles barely restrained an impatient sigh. "_Yes_, sir, but only for long-distance runs. The QH39 has a much higher acceleration than the RZ47, but it takes longer to reach that acceleration. For a short trip such as the one between here and Barrayar, the RZ47 is the clear choice." He paused a moment before adding, "In addition, sir, the RZ47 has much comfier lounges, so if I were piloting you, a superior officer"—_even if you're not_—"the comfort would have a clear priority. Unless, of course, it was an emeregency. Sir."

"Very good, Cadet," returned Vordanos. "Have you been studying?"

Miles gave the teacher an incredulous look. This was _basic_ stuff, any fool knew it. How could the man think that _Miles_, of all peo—oh. Right.

Goddamn Miles' counterpart and his acting obsession.

The rest of the lessons passed in a similar manner, with the instructors asking questions even _Ivan_ would have known the answer to. Miles' answers became more succinct, and he struggled not to grit his teeth. He knew, logically, it wasn't an insult—but it still felt like one. And he felt a deep, deep shame on the part of his counterpart. Ivan had said that he wasn't an idiot, but how anyone other than an idiot could miss this stuff was beyond Miles—

_Calm down, boy. There's no need to go into hysterics. They won't help, and you know it._

Another thing that was bothering him were Ivan's oblique hints about the mysterious guest lecturer in S&T. He hadn't managed to catch Ivan at lunch—Ivan had, he was sure, purposefully avoided him.

He was currently in Psychology, which was, at least, not so bad as the others. Piotr Miles apparently was fairly good at this, though not as good as Miles Naismith. _But then, he'd have to be, to be an actor._

He sighed gloomily, then glanced at the clock thoughtfully. It was five minutes until Psychology ended.

Four minutes.

Three minutes.

Two.

One.

The buzzer buzzed, and Miles hissed under his breath with triumph. Nearly overturning his desk in his haste to be out of it, he ran full out until he reached the Strategy & Tactics classroom. He sat himself in the front row, center, wanting to find out as soon as possible who was this damned mysterious lecturer of Ivan's. Who could it be? His father, maybe? His _mother_? No.

Who, though?

He was lost in thought when he heard a familiar voice by the door.

"Hello, son," greeted Kai Tung. "Long time no see."

_**A/N: Yes, I'm evil. Deal with it. No, I don't know when I'll update again—my habits in that area are irregular, to say the least. I hope you enjoyed it—if you did, or even if you didn't, why not leave a review?**_


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